


Phantom Sounds

by benignmilitancy



Category: Half-Life
Genre: And PotB is taking forever, Felt the need to write more Alyx fic but I'm out of practice with it, Gen, Half-Life Alyx, One Shot, POV Second Person, fear of the dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26176810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benignmilitancy/pseuds/benignmilitancy
Summary: You shouldn't blurt your deepest wishes in the dark; something unsavory may hear. One-shot.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	Phantom Sounds

You used to dream of slamming doors.

Dad always left the light on for you when you were growing up because he knew it was foolish not to keep one eye open. It's no longer an immature fear confined to the realm of children's overactive imaginations. Still, you insist you can handle it.

You inform him of the distinction. It isn't the dark that scares you; it's the noise that occurs within. The growl of teeth waiting to sink into flesh. 

He can't help but give you a grimace, a small nod of sympathy.

Your mind plays tricks on you. It wants you to dwell on the cold blue dim of a razor train. It wants you to give gaze to a murky abyss whose distance you couldn't judge. 

The creaking of cables. The beeping of your failing gloves.

 _Russell,_ you say, fighting the tremors in your voice. _Tell me a story._

* * *

Darkness presses upon your skin. A thick, suffocating shroud wraps around your ribs, preventing breath from fully leaving your lungs.

Existence clings so frailly to itself. The electrical Xenian creature leapt into a human corpse like it was nothing, mucous membranes splashing through decayed flesh, worming its way into the nervous system to reactivate dead tendons. One of its arms fell off as it chased you. You were too busy running to notice.

You take this reprieve to allow your Magnum to cool and to catch your breath. Your sweat patters the squelching floor in thick, heady droplets. Smoke mingles with the smell of singed flesh. The corpse's vacated intestines burned.

At least headcrab victims have the choice to protest, you think.

The walls bleed, ooze, and exhale radiant spores. All around you, life grows in quiet invasion. Bulbs sprout from couch cushions. Barnacle tongues slither along the floor in search of food. A blossoming of spiked plants nests inside a broken television set. Iridescent vines climb the walls. 

If you close your eyes, you can hear a faint throb that isn't your heartbeat. 

The steel walls of the quarantine zone were erected long ago. They're kept hidden in shadows to allow the luminescent glow of scratched runes to waft through. 

_HEAR NO EVIL_  
_SEE NO EVIL_  
_SPEAK NO EVIL_

You pass your hand along them. 

_In the beginning, there was Black Mesa._

From darkness we have come, says the Vortigaunt. Into the void shall we depart.

* * *

The cabin rattles as 'Jeff' shuffles toward you, its fleshly mask snuffling and gurgling. Your suspended breath held in a palmful of tightly-knitted fingers.

The darkness in the elevator reeks of festered meat and the maggots that feast upon it, cured by dried vodka stains. You clutch the perspiring glass bottle in your taut-knuckled hand, certain the neck will snap and betray the scent of your blood to this… ambling _thing._

Where you go, 'Jeff' follows. It becomes a sadistic game after a while. Black holes rot the walls. Only one place for you to hide. You wait, heart thudding, while your boots crunch something you pray isn't bone.

 _Look over there, Jeff. Vintage Smirnoff._

No windows grace the cabin, allowing your imagination to run wild. What if the cables snap ( _just as they snapped under your father's weight and nearly sent him plummeting_ )? You'll be stuck with this abomination, hiding behind a thin cloud of ethyl. Prey ripe for the picking.

You've never been more grateful to see a setting sun. It lends the blood leaking from the compactor a certain gleam.

_Oh my God, Jeff, are you okay?_

You laugh before nausea scrunches your intestines.

You have to vomit.

When you finish, you take a swig of the bottle, grimacing at the path the alcohol blazes down your throat. Kind of medieval, but a little poison's necessary to cleanse yourself. 

_To Jeff,_ you toast.

* * *

Twilight descends, painting City 17 in dusky blue shadow. 

You swear the Combine have learned your name. You can't ruminate on the fact as you loot their corpses for spare bullets. Shuffle the cloth, discard the flesh; fresh shells jingle hard-won treasure in your hand.

The zoo exhibit empties into a gravel yard overrun with antlions skittering across the rocks. They burst from scrap piles, itching for a fight. 

Right. You've got to keep going.

* * *

It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. What do you get when you lock Gordon Freeman in a vault?

Your brows knit together. Is one man really so dangerous to the Combine? That he has to lie in a living coffin? The notion strikes you as ridiculous until you remember the Vortigaunts hooked to their electrical cells, powering the humming cables leading toward a skeletal high-rise. The Combine will suck the blood from your veins if they think it'll benefit them.

You stow like a rat inside a concave that allows your vision poor illumination. But you do hear a silhouetted woman pace before the monitors, her heels ( _why isn't she wearing regulations?_ ) clicking the metal floor. 

* * *

Flit from crumbling cover to crumbling cover, avoiding the Strider's shuddering breath. Bullets pit your trailing shadow. Over and over again she's shot down while you escape by the narrowest of margins.

When you were young and shivered in fear of very real monsters sleeping in the dark, Dad held you. _I'll keep you safe, baby._

Your nerves bristle as your father screams at you to go back, his voice muted by a flash and crushing silence. 

* * *

You climb an overturned table to access a doorway rotated on its side. Wood shuffles on linoleum, creaks under your weight. Gray light flickers through dusty blinds.

Maybe this is a dream. Maybe the Strider got you. At this point, you can't be certain.

The communicator buzzes static in your ear. You remove the flimsy steel wire fitted to your scalp and clip it your belt.

All around you, ghosts float in silence.

* * *

The vault's darkness disintegrates. A cheery lemon-yellow room beckons you. A small window framed by curtains, a humble radiator, a healthy flower propped in a vase, a suitcase perched on a carpeted floor. 

Surrounded by these elements, a tall, suited man waits with his hands clasped behind his back. It's what you imagined normalcy in the old world to be, yet… something about it feels off in a manner you can't quite describe. Like an idyllic painting has been tilted in its frame.

Suddenly, you don't want to engage. You want to heed your father's words too little too late. _Go back._ But you no longer have a choice.

He approaches you.

_What would you want nudged, Ms. Vance?_

You shouldn't blurt your deepest wishes in the dark; something unsavory may hear. May grant them and all that they entail. 

Your cells scream in unison. You've been waiting nineteen years for this moment. 

_The Combine off Earth. I want the Combine off Earth._

He smiles. His pale irises fail to align. 

_That would be a considerably large nudge._

Darkness again.

* * *

What are you looking at?

_What is this?_

You see yourself hunched over Dad's body, the circular spotlight illuminating only as far as his pool of blood spreads. You can't hear yourself grieve.

Your mind fades into white noise. Your efforts were for nothing? No, that can't be true. ( _You said you'd keep me safe. Is this what happened when you—_ )

_Free your father._

Do you have any other choice? You don't know the creature hovering above the two of you. You don't particularly care. You don't feel a goddamn thing as it sizzles and shrieks. 

Your father's blood evaporates, allowing him to slowly sit up. 

The man smiles at your action. 

_So that's it, right?_ you ask him. Your fingers tingle from the jolt. _Dad's saved, right?_

Footsteps echo away from you.

_Wait—_

The door slams shut.

The sound mocks you for eons.


End file.
